


Until the Drought is Over

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Series: Europa League series [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Liverpool fc - Freeform, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:22:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8717302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: The Europa League final is a tough day for the Liverpool team. But their captain is determined to get them through it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a five-part story about how Liverpool deals with losing the Europa League final against Sevilla.

Jürgen comes to him before the match, pulls him aside in the dressing room, and Jordan knows then that it’s not going to be good news. The armband wasn’t hanging neatly with his strip, after all. Still, he waits for Jurgen to tell him what he already knows: he won’t be starting.

It’s not a surprise, really. It’s one thing to be out for two weeks and come back, it’s another to be out for six weeks and come back. Jordan doesn’t envy Emre his comeback, even though it must have been nice, to bask in the glory and admiration of the fans, to pull off that sort of miracle. He sighs. It’s a miracle I’m here at all, he reminds himself. I could be in the stands, dressed in a suit, lifting the trophy and feeling like a complete idiot.

He goes back to the lads, waits as the lineup is announced, and pointedly ignores the stares he receives from the boys who had been expecting their captain. James is a good captain, too, and Jordan will go to his grave defending him. But this doesn’t exactly help that niggle of self-doubt that’s been surging more and more this year, as injuries have cropped up, and he’s spent more time useless in the physio’s room than out on the pitch with the boys. James is a good captain, he reminds himself. Milly’ll be fine. There’s a treacherous voice in the back of his head, though, the worst part of himself, that chooses that moment to pipe up “James doesn’t want it like I do.” And that’s not just disappointment talking. It’s true, Milly’s gone on record to say that he does his best as captain, but prefers Jordan having the armband. _You and me both, Milly,_ Jordan thinks to himself, not for the first time.

They go out onto the pitch. The young boys look nervous. Poor Alberto looks haggard, like he barely slept last night. Jordan imagines what he’d feel like if they were playing a cup final against Sunderland, and pity surges in his heart for the young boy (not so much younger than him, really, but it was just _Alberto_ , sweet, enthusiastic Alberto, who somehow seemed much younger than his twenty-three years), so loyal and passionate about Sevilla, only to face them here, working to disappoint the fans who had loved him first. He wonders if Alberto feels like a traitor now, remembers that he’d wept at his last match for Sevilla. His heart squeezes in sympathy for the younger man.

Milly, on the other hand, looks placid, ready, as if they were playing Aston Villa at home in the league instead of Sevilla in Basel in a stadium that wasn’t Anfield. Milly doesn’t want the captaincy, it’s true, but he wears it like he was born for it. Jordan looks at his broad shoulders and wonders if they’re a sign that Milly is destined to wear responsibility with ease, biologically built to bear the weight of it without flinching. Then he wonders when he turned into a sentimental sap. _Anything to distract from the occasion, I guess._

They go out onto the pitch, warm up, and this, at least, is familiar. Grabbing Milly’s shoulder as he swings his leg to and fro to stretch his hamstring, he feels his heartbeat slow a little, taking the edge off the anxiety that made it race. The boys stay close to each other. At this moment, homelands, language, race, religion, none of it matters. They are all from Liverpool now. It pulses through their blood. They all share the same blood, it feels like, flowing from one man into the next at the places where they touch. The younger boys look a bit less nervous now. Kolo looks confident, and Jordan sends up a silent prayer of gratitude for whatever forces made it possible for Liverpool to acquire both Kolo Toure and James Milner on free transfers, when each man brought with him such a wealth of experience. Hell, even Alberto looks like he can actually breathe again, which is always a positive.

They go back down, and Jordan watches the boys change from their warmup tracksuits into their kits. All pristine, matching, head to toe in red. He wondered how long it would take for the perfect fabric to be marred with sweat and blood and mud. He hoped that at the very least, it wouldn’t be dampened by tears, not tonight. Not again.

His uncooperative mind provides an unhelpful montage of his teammates, of his _friends_ weeping—Luis and Martin after the match against Crystal Palace a few years ago.

_(Stevie had cried too, that day, when the cameras were gone and he didn’t have to be strong anymore. He’d waited until he’d gotten into the shower, lingering there a few minutes after the other boys had finished. Jordan wouldn’t have noticed had his eyes not been red when he’d finally stepped out. That was the first time Jordan had truly understood the full burden of captaincy.)_

…A few of the boys after the defeat to Manchester City in the League Cup final—Phil with a towel over his head and Lucas’ arm around his shoulders, murmuring quiet words in Portuguese and pulling him into a tight hug.

_(Ads had been the worst that day. He hadn’t wept. He had just sat there, head in hands. Jordan thought he’d heard him sniffling, but didn’t say anything. There was nothing to be said, nothing that would help. Besides, Jordan himself was wrecked. What kind of captain didn’t take a penalty when the time came? He’d been too busy cursing his stupid body for letting him down at the worst possible time to even consider consoling the other boys.)_

James is done dressing. He picks up the armband, and for some reason, Jordan steps up and takes it from his hand. Holding the armband in his right hand, he takes Milly’s arm in his left, holding it out. There’s a flicker of surprise in Milly’s eyes, but that’s all, just a subtle thing that Jordan might have missed had he not spent every day with this man, fighting side by side for club and country.

A flicker in the eye is about as expressive as Milly gets before a match really. Jordan’s never met anyone as well-disciplined as James Milner before. Everyone celebrates him for his hard work, and rightly so, but Milly’s discipline doesn’t stop on the training ground. It extends to his behavior off the pitch, to the way he can receive news, process it properly, and then respond to it, rather than wearing his heart on his sleeve. _Still waters run deep,_  Jordan thinks. The expression may have been coined especially for James Milner.

Milly takes the hint and holds his arm out obligingly. Jordan uses both hands to slide the armband around Milly’s bicep, running his fingers over it one final time. If he was asked, he’d say he was smoothing it, making sure the sleeve wouldn’t pull uncomfortably. Honestly though, he just liked the feeling of it, the smoothness of the fabric. It was different from the raised embroidery of the premier league armband, he mused idly, pulling his hand away and bestowing a final pat to Milly’s shoulder, with a smile to boot, before stepping back.

Milly didn’t need encouraging words. If anything, Milly was probably better equipped to give them out than to receive them—he’d been here more than almost everyone else in the side, except maybe Kolo. So instead, Jordan just looked at him and nodded, before heading off to talk to some of the other boys.

The bench was cold beneath his legs. He sat with Lucas and Martin. They were solid and dependable as always, giving off a calm energy that helped sooth Jordan’s anxious heart, which wasn’t beating so much as racing.

Zeljko came over at some point in the first half, told him to warm up, and so Jordan did, leaving Martin and Lucas sat together. He jogged, did his stretches. The same stretches he would do if he was coming on against West Ham, or Stoke, or Manchester United. He tried not to think about the fact that he had a different fire running through his blood today, though Manchester United was a near approximation of the feeling. He got warm and went to stand near Jurgen.

Studge scored. Jordan stayed on the bench, until he piled into the tunnel with everyone else, the players on the pitch, the coaching staff, the other substitutes. It shouldn’t matter. Studge had done it. They were in the lead. One-nil, Jordan allowed himself to think for just a few seconds. _It won’t be the most glamorous score, no miracle at Istanbul, this, but a win is a win. A trophy! At Anfield! How proud Stevie and Carra will be,_ he thought. And then his five seconds of daydreaming were up, and he listened hard as Jurgen began talking. After he’d finished, Jordan went around to talk to the boys, to tell them to go again, that they’d done so well, that they were making everyone at home so proud.

(He left the last sentiment off when he spoke to Alberto, because everyone at home was rooting for the other team. Instead, he’d poked an elbow at the boy’s ribs, told him he was making both his dads proud, before pulling him into an affectionate headlock. Alberto’s smile alone could have lit the entire stadium after that.)

The second half started. Jordan wished that it hadn’t. He wished he could stay in that locker room forever, giving out hugs and making jokes and doling out praise. He wished time could stand still in that moment, where joy ruled them all, calming their trembling legs.

But this was not the first time a man had asked time to stand still, and as always, time had refused, marching inexorably on.

And so, the second half started. Sevilla scored. Jordan’s leg began bouncing up and down. He didn’t notice until Lucas finally lost the long battle with his patience, and pressed a hand to his knee to still its jumping. It was okay. It was okay. The boys would score again. Studge, or Ads, or Milly maybe. Hell, maybe it would be Kolo or Dejan, in a Dortmund-esque way, doing what needed to be done as always.

It didn’t exactly pan out that way. Instead Sevilla scored again eighteen minutes later.

…and again, just six minutes after that. They’d sent Divock onto the pitch, to try to salvage something. It hadn’t stopped Sevilla from scoring again, and it seemed to be the knockout punch.

Jurgen was alternating between screaming at the players, trying to rev up the silent, shell-shocked Liverpool fans in the stands, and consulting frantically with Zeljko, trying to find some sort of classic _Klopp ex machina_.

Joe Allen was sent on to alleviate the damage. Jordan waited patiently to be put on. He bit his lip as Benteke was sent on for Kolo, in a clear Hail Mary play.

Still, he thought to himself, there had been miracles before, and perhaps today would be one of them. He kept hoping and hoping, praying to a God he wasn’t quite sure he believed in, and certainly didn’t speak to much off the pitch.

Beside him Kolo was doing the same thing, fervently whispering musical Arabic words into his hands, then passing his hands over his face before beginning again. Lucas’ hands were clasped tight, but his lips were still, and if he was praying, it was just a silent, heartfelt yearning. Jordan couldn’t help but feel that if there was a god, and he was a benevolent one, that Lucas’ prayers and Kolo’s at least, would be answered, if not his. God probably didn’t care much for useless gimpy captains, but Lucas was a nurturer, sweet and kind and funny, and Kolo a fierce, fierce believer, resilient and passionate and loyal. Martin’s fists were clenched, his mouth unmoving, and face caught in a grimace that seemed to last thirty minutes, as though he’d already accepted that their castle in the sky was made of sand, and that the tide was coming in. If anyone deserved a miracle, it was these boys. _His_ boys.

 

Maybe their miracle would come after all.

The problem with miracles is that they don’t happen to people who don’t believe.

And while Kolo and Lucas and yes, Jordan himself, still believed, it became ever-clearer that the boys on the pitch just _couldn’t_ any longer.

The final whistle blew. Jordan rose, just a fraction of a second before Lucas and Martin and Kolo around him, and the four of them grimly set off to offer poor words of comfort to their heartbroken teammates.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coach ride back to the hotel. Jordan sits himself next to Adam and waits.

Jordan went straight to Milly, who was dry-eyed and composed as usual, smiling a big, toothy smile as he shook hands with Llorente. The smile slipped shortly thereafter, and he wondered if this was what you got after years and years of media training and more tough losses than you could have imagined, back when you were nine years old and staring at the telly in your kit shirt. He wrapped his arms around Milly, squeezed tight once, and let go after a moment. 

Jordan didn’t know what to say. It was Milly, for god’s sake, not one of the younger boys. He seemed, well, he seemed _fine_. And hell if Hendo didn’t know that he _wasn’t_ , of course he wasn’t, but he _seemed_ it. James was older, wiser, and more composed than Jordan was, and so he turned to walk away. He took a few steps, even, before he turned back to speak to Milly, a few poor words. He listened to Milly’s response, and when the media people approached like vultures for a post match interview, he left. He loved Milly, he did, but he had a whole team of people to take care of.

Jürgen was doing much the same thing, giving quick hugs to the lads who looked like they were coping, or angry instead of just completely devastated. Some of the lads looked desolate but dry-eyed. Clyney’s expression could have been the pictorial definition of heartbreak. Dejan was away from the rest of the boys, crying openly, not even bothering to hide in his shirt. Jurgen hung back with him, spoke to him for a few moments, and the two of them walked back to the rest of the group together.

Alberto had then come up to him, for once acting like the older of the two, and despite his shorter stature, he’d pulled Dejan into a hug, spoken to him, patted his chest. He was dealing with the loss remarkably well, Alberto. Jordan made a mental note to check on him later, though he knew Lucas would be doing the same.

Jordan had never spoken to Lucas about the way he fathered the hell out of Alberto and the younger Brazilian players, but he had appreciated it nonetheless. He could only imagine the unnecessary work involved in trying to speak a second or third language when you were already spending all your energy on trying to just be okay.

Emre had seemed fine at first, but as the reality sank in, his face sank more and more, until he pulled the collar of his shirt over his eyes, and wept. Like a shark smelling blood in the water, the cameras zoomed in, and Jordan was just so fucking tired of it.

They played the game, yes, but they weren’t zoo animals, to just be stared at in their joy and suffering alike. At least they didn’t have microphones, to hear poor young Emre crying, the hitching of his breath. He pulled Emre up onto his shoulder and rubbed his back as he cried, pushing away the parasitic camera as it zoomed every closer. _If you want to see misery, put on fucking Downton Abbey or bloody Game of Thrones,_ he thought viciously.

Phil was crying too, and _fuck_ , the sight of little Phil, their little magician, _crying_ pulled at Jordan’s chest. He’d played alongside Phil for a few years now, watched him grow from a shy, curly-haired boy to a mature young man and father. He couldn’t stop treating him like a little brother though. It was just _Phil_ , small and still a little self-conscious about his English in public, though he was as willing as anyone to throw around banter in the locker room (and cuss like a sailor, too! That Phil was a lesson in deceiving appearances, he was.). Phil was to be protected, always, and he should never cry, and that he was felt something like a personal failure to Jordan.

He stayed with Emre though, kept rubbing his back as he watched Lucas do the same with Phil, speaking to him in Portuguese. He knew it was Portuguese because otherwise he’d cover his mouth. Lucas, after all his years at the club, knew that much at least. Quietly, Jordan wished he could speak German, wished he could comfort the young man who’d worked so fucking hard to get here only to greet that bastard heartbreak again.

Milly was talking to Kloppo now, still composed. Jurgen had thrown an arm around his shoulders and kept it there. Maybe he’d be better at comforting Milly than Jordan himself had been. Maybe Jurgen would have the words. Or maybe he wouldn’t need words. Maybe just that arm was enough, the friendly touch serving as a reminder that it wasn’t Milly’s fault. The two of them spoke for quite awhile, both gesturing. Maybe they were already working on breaking down the game and finding some fucking lessons to learn. God, Hendo couldn’t even _think_ about that yet, it was still so _raw_. Maybe that was just another way he and Milly were different.

The boys pulled themselves together, just enough to get through the trophy ceremony. Emre stayed close behind Jurgen, like a child trailing behind his father at a crowded shopping center. There was a bit of space then, before Alberto led the rest of the boys behind him like a group of desolate ducklings. Studge didn’t even wear his medal. He wasn’t just sad or upset the way some of the boys were. He was downright _pissed_. Sighing, Jordan added him to his mental list of people to check on, after they left this stadium and got back to the hotel.

They stayed on the pitch to watch the Sevilla players pick up the trophy, out of sportsmanship, the commentators would say later, approval coloring their voices. Phil was drinking deeply from a bottle of water. Between sips, he’d stare at the bottle, as though wishing it held vodka instead.

The dressing room was quiet. The older players seemed to have decided, by some sort of unconscious consensus, born of years of camaraderie, to just let everyone stay in their own heads now. It was okay to cry now. Tomorrow, maybe even tonight after a few hours, it would be time to pick their heads up, learn some lessons, and face the future with brave smiles. But now, it was okay to be miserable. They’d just lost the biggest match of their careers, most of them, and yeah, it fucking sucked. So it was okay to be upset, to cry, to mope. Besides, Jordan was tired. He hadn’t even played, for fuck’s sake, so there was guilt and helplessness mixing in with the sadness and disappointment, like some sort of shit cocktail.

The lads cleaned themselves up, erased the tears and the sweat and the blood from their skin, covered the bruises behind expensive suits and blank faces, and waited for Jurgen to finish doing press so they could finally leave.

They piled into the bus. Jordan pondered who to sit beside, wondering who needed him the most. Instinctively, he moved towards Alberto, but saw him sitting beside Bobby, with Phil and Lucas just behind. He figured he’d be okay. He kept looking, until he came across Adam, sitting alone in the back of the coach, and almost without thinking, he sat down beside him. He hadn’t spoken to Adam much since the final whistle. He tried to wrack his brains, tried to remember who had been comforting Ads, but he couldn’t. How did a professional footballer manage to make himself so small and inconspicuous after a loss? He hadn’t cried (or hadn’t been caught out, perhaps). He must have remained in the middle of the line to collect medals, and gone into the tunnel right after Sevilla lifted the cup.

Jordan nudged him with his shoulder.

“How you holdin’ up, Ads?”

Adam didn’t say anything. He just looked at Jordan, one sharp moment of eye contact, and quietly slumped against the seat, eyes slipping shut. He sat there, almost boneless in the way he conformed to the chair, until his head rolled over onto Jordan’s shoulder, a little too deliberate to be coincidence. Jordan lifted his shoulder and wrapped an arm around him, holding for a bit. Eventually Adam’s breathing evened out. Jordan rested his own head atop Ads’, just for a moment…

He woke a few minutes they pulled in close to the hotel, with his arm feeling unpleasantly numb and tingly. He tried to extract it without waking Adam, but it was a lost cause. Ads looked at him sleepily, and Jordan raised his arm, wrist hanging limply, and flopped it a bit.

“I’ve gone numb,” he explained quietly.

“I wish we all could,” joked Ads, his humor taking a decided turn for the darker in the wake of the loss.

There was nothing Jordan could say to that, so he didn’t. Instead, he just sighed, and leaned his own head onto Adam’s shoulder, slouching low in his chair to compensate for the height difference that didn’t seem as large on the pitch as it did now.

They stayed there until they got to the hotel. Everyone dispersed to their rooms, except Jordan. He saw Milly and attached himself to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get back to the hotel. Jordan walks Milly up to his room. He's been strong long enough, their Milly.

“Walk you up?” Jordan offered generously. Milly looked bewildered, but he didn’t say no, and so Jordan took that as a sign to walk beside him and into the room.

“Do… you want to talk about it?”

“Not really, mate.”

“Do you need to cry?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Do you… want a hug?”

“I think I’m okay for n—oof” Milly didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence. Jordan had decided to do what he felt was necessary, regardless of what his vice-captain said, and so he’d barreled into the smaller man’s chest. Jordan was not a slight man, and because he was taller, bounding into Milly’s arms like that knocked the air right out of him as he stumbled back half a step.

Milly had been tense with surprise at first, but he relaxed into the hug, and his arms came up to wrap around Jordan’s back.

Seconds passed, and Jordan showed no signs of stepping away, so Milly patted him a few times on the back.

“ I think I’m good now, Hendo.”

“Okay.” As they stepped apart, Hendo cast about for something to say, realizing that he was probably acting like a crazy person.

“It’s just, I know what it’s like,” he blurted out, “You’re the captain, you have to be strong, take care of everyone else, but nobody takes care of you, and that’s just hard. But I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to worry about, you know, protecting me from your sadness or whatever. You don’t have to be this strong all the time. Not for me.”

Milly smiled at him, and it wasn’t the smile he’d given Llorente after the match, or the rueful one he’d offered the reporters. It was a woeful thing, cracked and fragile and weak, the kind of smile you’d wear after things went horribly, horribly wrong and you couldn’t fix them.

“I—I couldn’t _lead_ them.” Milly took a deep breath. He looked like he might stop there, but then he shook his head and kept speaking.

“We needed someone to make them believe, and it wasn’t me. It can’t be me!” Another deep breath.

“I shouldn’t even have been playing. I’m not a bad player, but it should have been _you_ , Hendo. God, if Stevie had been here, I swear to you we’d have a trophy right now. We’d, God, we’d be _swimming_ in champagne.” And the longing in Milly’s voice, it’s criminal, and Hendo was already feeling protective over the team, but this was just too much.

“We needed that _spark_ , Jordan, and I, I just couldn’t make it.” And it’s now that Hendo realizes something. That longing in Milly’s voice? The longing that made Hendo’s chest ache with sympathy and compassion? That longing wasn’t for the cold metal of a trophy beneath his lips. That longing was for the ability to inspire belief, for the particular Steven Gerrard-esque brand of inimitable greatness, for the ability to be Captain Fantastic when he needed to be. Hendo recognized it for what it was, having felt it for so long himself.

He was stunned silent, the uncharacteristic words a visceral reminder that James Milner, for all his experience, for all his maturity, for all his chiseled perfection, was, in the end, just a man, crippled by the same vulnerability any man felt. And in that moment, Hendo loved him more than he ever had, and hated the world for making him assume this persona of perfection just to get by, for the good of the team, knowing that James would cut off his own arm if he thought it was for the good of the team.

Jordan thought of what he could say, mulled over words, as the silence settled slowly over them, like fog rolling into a dreary Liverpool.

“Do you know what I thought before the game?”

James shakes his head, eyes flicking up from the ground to meet his captain’s.

“I thought you were a better captain that I would ever be,” Jordan confesses in a quiet voice. “I thought you were smarter than me and stronger than me and more experienced and you were _healthy_ at least, and fit, and here I was, four years younger and my body already starting to go. I thought that this was the start of a downward slope. I thought that when they talked about me in ten years, they’d say I _could_ have had a brilliant career, if I hadn’t been so unlucky with injury.”

“Milly, lad, you were _amazing_ today. You tried your best, and so did Kolo, but the boys don’t have experience like you two do. It,” his voice dropped to a whisper, seemed to vanish entirely, “it seemed too good to be true. We were…”

There was an expression for this, one Hendo had read in a book sometime in school (the character had been talking about love, some bird he’d fancied, but all Hendo had been able to think about was football. It had always been that way with Hendo, though.)

“We were half agony, half hope,” he finished, ignoring Milly’s surprised _where the hell did that come from_? look. ”We were dreaming, and expecting every minute that we’d wake up. And now, it’s like someone threw cold water on us, we’re so fucking awake.”

Milly didn’t say anything, choosing instead to sigh glumly. He walked over and let himself fall face-first onto the bed.

“We have to sleep if we want to dream again,” he said, voice quiet and sad, muffled by the covers, “and somehow I think we’ll have some trouble sleeping for the next few days.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan calls an impromptu team meeting and tries to figure out a way to make it hurt less. Being together helps, as does some advice from an old friend.

Sometimes wallowing was fine, and sometimes processing a loss like this meant everybody dealing in a different way, on their own. But this was their last match of the season, and by tomorrow evening, the boys would split and scatter, like dandelion seeds blown a million different ways by the wind, and the lads would disperse to the four corners of the earth, and surely they couldn’t just _leave_ it like this. Not after all the team meetings and training sessions and flights and coach rides, moving so slow because of the throngs of people coming out to see them. Not after all the laughter and the joy and the pain and the tears, the hugs and the kisses, happy and sad.

Stevie wouldn’t have allowed it. And Jordan couldn’t either.

So he sat beside Milly, putting one hand on his back and rubbing gently (Milly made a quiet sound of content. Oh god, was Milly _purring_? What was the world coming to, with big tough James Milner fucking _purring_ like a sweet little kitten?). With his other hand, he pulled out his phone and shot a text to Lucas, Adam, and Martin, to see how they were doing.

He figured each of them had taken a few of the young boys under their wings, especially Lucas, who was a born father. Martin was surprisingly paternal too, in a fierce protective sort of way, and when one of the lads was hurting, quiet, stoic Martin was there soon after, offering comforting words and a shoulder to lean on, as well as a few earnest hugs.

Adam had responded with empty platitudes—“doing fine, just a bit bummed out, mate,” while Martin had responded with a sad emoji, followed by “Dejan’s not doing so well.” Lucas had read not only the text message, but its context and its subtext in that brilliant way he always did, and so he responded with a series of names and a series of numbers:

“Doing my best, but the boys are taking it hard. Bobby’s surprisingly okay, Ads will be, and Phil, Emre, and Dejan are just wrecked. Studgey doesn’t seem that depressed, but he’s really mad. Won’t talk to anyone, steaming alone in his room. Dunno about the others. It’ll take a bit of time, lad.”

Jordan made up his mind, one hand still absently rubbing up and down Milly’s back. Milly turned his face to nuzzle into Jordan’s thigh, which was surprising enough to still the smooth motion of his hand for a moment. Milly let out an indignant _whine_ of all things, and Jordan dearly wished he wasn’t captain so he could use this information as blackmail material for the rest of his life. But he was, and captains had to rise above sometimes, even when it was incredibly difficult. Jordan sighed. The high road was so exhausting.

His hand resumed its soothing strokes, and he wondered if his vice-captain was just a robot being piloted by an affection-deprived cat.

He sent a text to the lads’ group chat.

_Team meeting, Milly’s room (278). Ten minutes._

Ads arrived in two.

Milly raised his head at the knock on the door, and made no protest as Jordan rose to answer.

Ads came in and flopped onto the bed beside Milly. Jordan raised an eyebrow at the familiarity of it, but shrugged and resumed his seat on Milly’s other side, hand automatically resuming what could only be described as lovingly stroking Milly’s back. It was Ads’ turn to raise an eyebrow, but he too dropped the look after a moment.

The others arrived, in groups and clusters, Studgey arriving last and on his own, a full three minutes after the ten had elapsed, in a show of uncharacteristic (and petulant) lateness. Normally Jordan might have had a word—they were all on the same floor of the hotel, surely it couldn’t have taken that long to get there—but he figured that today of all days, he could just let it go. And so he smiled and stepped aside to let Studgey in.

The room was a bit cramped. Milly had sat up and moved back so more boys could pile onto the bed. The comfy chair in the back was holding not one, but three Brazilians, Lucas sitting on the seat with Bobby and Phil each perched on an armrest, with Alberto sitting at his feet. Those four were so close they seemed to even _breathe_ in sync.

Emre and Studgey had their backs to the rest of the group, looking out the window at the Basel skyline. Jordan could see Emre’s profile, filled with an indescribable yearning. Daniel’s face was blank, the expression of a man whose anger had burned out, leaving nothing in its wake. Kolo was leaning against the wall, looking almost like his normal self, if you ignored the weariness in the smile. Dejan was beside him, gazing at the opposite wall, unseeing. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose was red, though his cheeks were dry at the moment. Joe had found a way to make himself so small that Jordan almost missed him, tucked in another corner. 

Jordan cleared his throat, and was met with the unsettling sight of the unblinking gaze of a dozen men crammed into one hotel room (however luxurious the hotel was, one hotel room could only have so much space, after all).

“It’s our last night together,” he said, slowly, mind racing ahead to the next words, scrambling for any idea possible, “and we’re going to spend it together. So we’ve got two options—go out and get dinner, or order a few pizzas and grab a few drinks and stay in. We can have a movie night,” he says, to his own surprise.

“So let’s have a vote then. Those in favor of going out?” No hands went up. At all. Jordan even got the judgmental ‘wtf were you thinking’ eyebrow raise from Emre, and surprisingly, from Milly too. Daniel just looked at him—Studge didn’t even have to raise a brow to look judgey. Jordan made a mental note to study that look until he could deliver it too.

“Those in favor of staying in?” He forged on, ignoring the increasingly judgemental looks he was getting from his teammates. He knew it was bad when _Alberto_ was looking at him with bewilderment, as if to say “You know the answer to this. Why are you asking us?”

“Right, Emre, we’re going to need you to order the pizza—sorry Bobby, I don’t trust your German.”

“That is probably good,” Roberto admitted with a shrug.

“Okay,” Jordan said, doing the mental math and banking on having some extra, “six pizzas, two with veggies, one with chicken, one with mushrooms, and two plain cheese, and we’ll all be sharing, so I don’t want anybody fighting for the last slice, alright lads?” The boys nodded halfheartedly.

He nodded once, decisive.

“Right then, we can turn on the telly while the pizza gets here.”

He watches Milly search for the remote, waiting awkwardly for bodies to move so he can search under, behind, and around them. Eventually, Ads stands, and Milly thrusts his hand beneath the pillow and pulls it out, with a victorious “a-ha!”

Milly turns on the telly and flips through the channels, settling on the first English one he sees. They quickly realize that this is a mistake, as this channel is currently showing a teenage girl moping to her best friend about the boy who still hasn’t noticed her, despite her obvious good looks and perfect six-foot blonde model physique. Jordan uses this opportunity to text Stevie.

_Stevie, I’m trying to cheer up the boys. I need motivational feel-good sports movies. I’m counting on you here, mate. We need you._

Milly turns to change it, ignoring Alberto’s whine of “I was watching that!” followed by a quiet “Why doesn’t he love her?”

Steven Gerrard has never once let Jordan Henderson down, and he pulls through yet again. Jordan watches in amazement as his phone buzzes five or six times, listing different movies.

_Remember the Titans_

_The Sandlot_

_We Are Marshall_

_The Blind Side_

_Alex also says Bend It Like Beckham and Fever Pitch are good. Most of these are about American football, so that should make it easier to watch. Give the boys all my love._

_Oh, and tell Alby papa is so proud of him and says hi. ;)_

Jordan picks the Sandlot, and dashes to his room to pick up his computer. He pulls up the movie before returning to Milly’s, where Alberto and Clyney are actually _wrestling_ over the remote, with a ring of teammates around them, cheering them on. Milly is shouting a bit and waving his arms, but to no avail. He looks over at the sound of the door opening (though how he heard it through the commotion is a mystery—maybe he was just planning on making his escape, the fact that it was his room rendered completely irrelevant).

Jordan walks in, sucks in a single breath, and lets out a sharp whistle.

The ring of spectators breaks up instantly, and Jordan eyes each of the boys. Some of the older lads blush under his scrutiny, correctly reading in his expression the implication that they were _supposed_ to be responsible, that they should have intervened before this point, surely.

Lucas has a shrewd look in his eye, as though he had considered intervening and decided against it. Jordan sees it and decides to let them off easy.  

_(What Lucas had considered was this: The lads were all devastated after the loss today. Clyney and Alberto weren’t hurting each other, really, it was just a bit of a schoolboy wrestle, and it was… Well, honestly, it was funny. The boys were amused, laughing, smiling, and most importantly, they were together. It was worth it to see them shake off that hangdog look for a few minutes. Maybe this could be the first step to getting over it. And that was why Lucas didn’t say anything, but stood there with his arms crossed and a satisfied smile on his mouth.)_

“Alberto, I just got a text from Stevie telling me how proud he was of you. What do you think he’d say if he saw you now?” Jordan’s voice was mild, even in its reprimand. Alberto smiled, a small, pleased smile, as though that one text had made everything okay again for a moment.

  
“A Gerrard always goes down fighting!” he cried, unrepentant, with an oddly practiced voice, as though that actually was something Stevie had told him a few times.

“Did Stevie really say that?” He asked, and at Jordan’s nod, the smile on his face grew wider, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud to shine down on the city streets. 

Jordan shook his head and moved on.

“Right, boys. We’re watching a film!” And before Alberto could get past “Froz-,” he continued on hurriedly, “that I’ve already chosen.” (Alberto frowned petulantly.)

There was a knock at the door as the pizzas arrived, right on time. The boys quieted, at least as much as a group of professional footballers every got. Smoothly, Emre rose and went to the door, keeping it sufficiently closed so the rest of the boys wouldn’t be seen and drawn into the conversation. He made casual small talk with the delivery man, smiling graciously for a picture as he was recognized, and shutting the door with a quiet “ _Danke_.”

The lads sprawled everywhere, and because there wasn’t that much space, they ended up sprawling all over each other as well. The Brazilian squad stayed in the corner chair, with Lucas sat there like a king in his throne, and Phil and Bobby leaning into his shoulders, as Alberto leaned back at his knees.

The others were sat everywhere, and as the movie continued on, and the pizzas were eaten, it grew quieter and quieter. Eventually, Alberto fell asleep.

Daniel was the first to seize the opportunity, and sat next to him, flashing a grin and a thumbs up as he took a selfie. There were muffled chuckles, as Clyney and Ads did the same. Jordan didn’t quite participate, but he did take a sneaky pic of the sleeping boy, which he sent Stevie, along with a message reading _I think your boy will be okay_.

 _His captain takes good care of him,_ came the response. _I’m not gonna ask why he’s sleeping on the floor, though._

Jordan chuckled quietly and used his phone to take a panoramic picture of the entire room, the light of the television showing all the boys. _No space for puppy on the bed. :P_

_Could you check on Lucas in a few days if you get a chance? He might not show it, probably trying to take care of everyone else, but he’ll take it hard,_ came the sobering response.

_Aye, aye captain._

Somehow, between the selfies with a sleeping Alberto, and the triumphant return of the kids’ baseball (Jordan had to admit that he now had a slightly better understanding of why the Americans loved the game so much… though surely cricket was much more efficient, at least in terms of space?), and the pizza finally satisfying hungry tummies, half the boys were sleeping now, and the other half very, very near it.

By the time the ending credits rolled, everyone was asleep except for Jordan. There was something a teacher had said to him once– _Look at anything closely enough, and you will find deep and profound truth._

It was a strange thought, but a comforting one, and it was one that Jordan often stumbled across, half-buried in the stream of his own thoughts and concerns.

And he’d tripped across it yet again during the film, and so he watched eagerly until the end, thinking and overthinking and analyzing and overanalyzing until he was half mad from it. The half that wasn’t mad though, it was reveling in the deep, profound truth that he had found, pondering in a way that felt good to his mind.

Stevie had been right to suggest this film. It wasn’t about professionals, with fans and mansions and sports cars and sponsorships. It wasn’t about the Liverpool players. It was about the kids they had been, playing in the street and in fields. Playing because football brought them more joy than anything in the world. Something _more_ than joy, even, exhilaration, satisfaction, adrenaline, the sound of blood rushing through your ears, the way your mind worked, thoughts flowing smoothly and naturally, aerodynamically, with no resistance. And yes, sometimes that feeling was tempered by pain, but sometimes pain magnified it, too.

Sometimes pain meant that they got to try again, meant that there was still something more to be done. For if they’d won it all, felt it all, what more could there be? There was no drug quite like victory, and it was the purest high, celebrated in the purest brotherhood, the deepest and most profound respect and honor and admiration amongst them.

Thoughts swirled in Jordan’s head, even as he turned off the television. Even as his eyes grew heavier, falling to half-mast, then dragging down, down, down, like a ship anchoring at the end of a long voyage, into its home port _(the port of Liverpool, perhaps)_.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emre is the first to wake up. He sneaks out and buys breakfast for everyone, and consequently because everyone's favorite, as if he wasn't already. 
> 
> The boys go home, and walk on.

Emre was the first to wake. It was disorienting, because there were other people around, which meant that he wasn’t at home. He opened his eyes without raising his head.

Was that Dejan with his head on Emre’s thigh? And Martin curled up beside him? God, where _was_ he?

His gaze fell upon an empty pizza box, hanging half open on Kolo’s lap, and all the memories from last night clicked into place, like looking at the world through a camera that had just fallen into focus.

He saw about extricating himself from what could only really be called a puppy pile, finding an errant cushion and resting it beneath Dejan’s head, and rising. He stepped carefully between legs and arms and around Clyney’s head.

There was a sudden bright light in his eyes. He squinted and moved an inch to the left. The light was coming from the window, having bounced off a white plastic card—the room key. He pocketed it and left the room, lifting a hand to feel the stubble that wasn’t there last night.

He stopped by his room to brush his teeth and grab his wallet, then left the hotel, walking down the street to the bakery he’d seen earlier.

He bought all sorts of things—muffins, croissants (Joe was quite fond of a good croissant), bagels, and even a few doughnuts. He considered the nutrition of the food, but figured it was fine—the season was over, after all, he thought soberly to himself. He bought a large egg-white omelette with vegetables anyway, for Milly, who would no doubt frown at the other options. Probably best not to get too much anyway—he was pretty sure Jürgen would want to see them all for breakfast before they flew back to Liverpool and said their goodbyes for the summer.

It was good to speak German again. The words fell from his tongue, almost tripping over each other in their eagerness to get out. He was glad but almost surprised that they didn’t feel rusty at all. It would certainly be useful if he ended up getting called up for the Euros.

He got back to the hotel, and he lifted a knee to balance the boxes of pastries on as one hand rummaged through his pocket for the key. He found it, and got the door open, and stumbled over to the closest flat surface he could find.

It was the table the television was on, and he dropped the boxes there with a relieved sigh.

On the bed, Jordan stirred, shifting to turn over when he hit something on the way. Something warm. It was Milly’s arm, as it turned out, and Milly shifted in response, leaning into the touch as his eyes opened lazily.

And so, like a series of dominoes falling, the boys woke up, sitting up with yawns and gasps and sleepy, puzzled looks, and a quiet Spanish murmur from the corner of _Que hora es?_ which was answered in equally sleep-roughened Portuguese— _Eu não sei_.*

“Morning, lads,” Emre said, in an entirely too chipper voice. Martin openly grimaced.

“I brought breakfast!” Fast as lightning, Martin’s grimace transformed into a grateful smile.

“Our hero,” Jordan said fondly.

Emre waved off the praise modestly, and so the boys sat up, stretched, and ate breakfast, even as the old pizza boxes sat in the corner.

In the morning light, in the company of friends and teammates, the world seemed a brighter place. Even the loss seemed less awful, more an opportunity to learn than a failure to perform. Jordan noted the jokes, the laughter, and the companionable atmosphere in the room. He was rather pleased with how his little enterprise had turned out. _This captain lark wasn’t so bad, after all,_ he thought, a bit brash in the safety of his own head.

The lads piled out of Milly’s room, dispersing to their own rooms to shower and prepare for the flight back to Liverpool. Jordan lingered, the last to leave. He tried to subtly evaluate Milly, but subtlety had never really been his strong suit, as he found out when Milly clapped an arm to his shoulder.

“I’m alright, mate. We’ll get it next time.” And there was a new confidence in his voice, as if he really believed it, rather than just saying it because that’s what captains were supposed to say, or because it was what you always said after a loss. Jordan smiled.

“I know we will,” he said with a grin. He started off down the hall, but turned before Milly’s door had shut.

“See you in a bit, yeah?”

Milly smiled reassuringly as he agreed.

Jurgen gave them a lovely pep talk before they boarded the flight. When they were back in England, the coach went to Melwood where they’d each parked. He asked the boys to wait a bit, and took each one aside, speaking to them quietly, telling them he was proud of them, that they could and would improve, and bidding them farewell and happy holidays for the summer with a long hug. And then they went home.

There was more to life than football, after all. Jordan may be slightly biased, but he would rather stay at Liverpool, would rather lose with this group of boys, than he would win somewhere else, somewhere he wasn’t loved and respected and supported the way he was here.

He and Milly walked to their cars together, Milly whistling a familiar tune that made Hendo’s heart seize and stutter and rise up in his chest, that made hope bloom against all odds, like a flower in the desert.

He hummed the first few bars absently as he got in his car. “ _Walk on through the wind, walk on through the rain, though your dreams be tossed and blown…”_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The cracks in your heart they look just like mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14768390) by [hopeinyourheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeinyourheart/pseuds/hopeinyourheart)




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